The Perils of Unexpected Visitors
by saramon
Summary: In which America shows up at England's house and expects to stay. Of course that's ridiculous, and of course England isn't going to let him - unless he is. This can't end well - unless it can. USxUK. Christmas-themed and full of fluff.
1. 19th December

England was being kissed, very enthusiastically and surprisingly quite well, by America.

This was a problem. It was also not a problem, and the problem was that it was not a problem. Unfortunately, the way it was not a problem was making it very hard to concentrate on it being a problem, and the way that it was not a problem was that he was sort of enjoying it. Sort of a lot.

There was another problem, which was related to the way it was all not a problem. This problem was that this kiss had not come particularly out of the blue. It had not even come out of say, left field. It wasn't as though America had walked up and kissed him with no preamble whatsoever. No, England knew this kiss was probably his own fault. He had encouraged it.

And that was not a problem either.

His problems had all started five days ago, really. Five days ago was a day before this year's world conference started. Five days was the first big snowfall of the year, which meant that five days ago was when he was suddenly inspired to put up Christmas decorations, so that when the doorbell rang five days ago, he was too distracted to with untangling himself from a string of lights to properly check who it was, and that was how, a week ago, he ended up letting America into his house.

"Merry Christmas!" America said cheerfully, shaking the snow from his hair as he walked in. He was carrying a large suitcase, but as England was busy trying to get the lights off from around his neck, he failed to notice this.

"Bah bloody humbug," England growled, having lost all his holiday spirit as a result of two hours of struggling with Christmas lights. He would have _sworn_ they were neatly coiled when he put them away. "And what do you think you're doing here?"

"Conference starts tomorrow, remember?" America set down his suitcase. "Do you need help with that? 'Cause you kinda look like you're choking."

"I'm perfectly well aware the conference starts tomorrow, as it's in _my_ country," England snapped. For all his efforts, the string of lights only seemed to be getting more tangled and tighter around him. "I asked you what you're doing _here._ In my house."

America grinned. "Staying with you, of course!"

England jerked on the string. Suddenly he _was_ choking, and America bounded over to help. He had the lights untangled within seconds. Git. Why did he have to be useful right _now,_ right when England was about to say –

"No." Massaging his throat, he shook his head. "Absolutely not. I don't know what world you live in, but – "

"But it's a recession!" America was practically pouting, his eyes huge and round. "This is cheaper! It's only for a couple days! My boss told me to save money!"

England closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if it was the near-garroting or America's voice, but his head was starting to pound. "No. No, no, no. Do I even need to list all the things wrong with this? You don't just _show up_ on people's doorsteps and expect to stay a week!"

"But I knew if I called ahead, you would've said no," America pointed out.

Fair enough (as he'd just done so), but – "And you think I won't just throw you out now instead?" His head was really aching now. It must be the conversation – this was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard since he didn't know when.

"Nope," America said cheerfully, and England was just about to demand what exactly would prevent him from doing it, when America stepped forward and pressed the string of Christmas lights, now neatly coiled, into his hand.

"You can't throw me out," he explained, and why wasn't he letting go of England's hand? "I just saved your life, didn't I?"

Er. Once again, fair enough. But he spluttered, "And you were just expecting to have an opportunity like that?"

"Nope," America repeated, and by now the polite time to let of England's hand was long past, so why was he still holding onto it and why exactly were England's palms getting sweaty? Just the pressure from having his hand pressed between America's, that was all.

This completely explained why his _non-_ held hand was also slick with sweat.

America finally let go of him (England wrung his hand vigorously) and said, "But I knew I'd be able to convince you one way or another. Where was your spare room again? Oh yeah, down here. Gosh, I haven't been here in so long!"

And he picked up his suitcase and walked off.

Ha. The innocent act wasn't fooling England. Certainly not. (The puppy eyes, in particular, had absolutely no effect on him.) America was up to something sinister.

He just wished he had some idea what it was.

On the other hand, the way things were going, he'd have nearly a week to figure it out. Oh God. A week of almost constant America? They could barely stand each other for _half_ the day during meetings. What had he just gotten himself into –

Wait a moment. Wait one bleeding moment. He _hadn't_ just gotten himself into anything. He'd never actually _agreed_ to America staying here! What was America talking about, convincing him one way or another? For God's sake, he'd just bluffed his way in on nothing! England was still perfectly within his rights to throw him out!

He stormed down to the guest bedroom where America was unpacking his things as if he had a right to do so. As if England had _invited_ him in! Into his house! Into his guest…bedroom…

Whatever the reason (and he wasn't going to think about the reason), that thought made him stop short just inside the threshold of America's room. Which rather ruined the effect of storming in.

"If you were going to offer me tea, no thanks," America said, looking up.

The nerve! No right to be there, no right at all, and America was expecting England to offer him _tea?_ And refusing it before England had even asked! As if he would offer him tea in any case!

"I wasn't going to offer you tea," England said acidly.

America grinned and shut his now empty suitcase. "I know. You haven't offered me tea since I actually drank some and then spit it all over you. Hope you don't mind if I get myself some coffee though. I had to catch a plane at midnight."

He tried to walk out of the room (_without_ England's permission to make himself anything, thank you very much), but England threw up his arm across the doorway, catching him in the stomach.

"No," he said. "You may not make yourself coffee. First off, I don't even _have _any coffee. And in case you didn't _notice,_ you never actually _did_ convince me to let you stay here. So you had better start talking fast before I throw you out in the snow. _Without_ that suitcase."

In retrospect, England thought he never should have given America a chance. He should have just made him leave, no other option. He made the mistake though, and America took the opening.

"I don't need to convince you. I already saved your life." And he bent over England in a way that could've been menacing but was actually something else. "Come on, the least you can do is let me stay, right?"

England meant to say, "No, of course not, I never would have choked if you hadn't been here in the first place," but for some reason America's face close to his made him say, "Ah. Er. Um. Yes?"

"Of course!" America said, then brushed England's arm away like it was nothing at all. "Guess I'll have to get my own coffee. There's a convenience store a block that way, right? I passed it on my way here. There _is_ coffee here, right?"

And he sauntered out.

Right. Well. If that was how it was going to be. England stood up straight and, out of habit, tried to flatten his hair. Alright, he'd said yes somehow. It had slipped out. He wasn't sure how or why, but he supposed he had to be gentlemanly. America could stay. For now.

After all, what could possibly happen?


	2. 20th December

A lot of things could happen, apparently.

The first few hours weren't too bad. America went out to buy coffee, and England looked at the remaining boxes of Christmas decorations, then remembered the choking incident and decided to leave them alone. His head was still aching, so he downed some aspirin, and then brewed himself some tea. He was just starting to relax a bit when America burst back in with a bag of instant coffee and commandeered his kitchen, which, as England rightfully pointed out, was rather rude for even for someone who'd been invited. Which America hadn't been.

America just laughed it off in that mildly infuriating way of his, then sat down with England tried to have a chat.

A chat.

As if they'd had a proper chat since the 18th century. What could they possibly have to talk about? "Oh, lovely weather, ta for ruining the global economy." "Invaded any middle Eastern nations lately?" "So, how _about_ that global warming?" Yes, those would go over beautifully.

Luckily, America seemed not to have noticed that England was not contributing much to the conversation, and he was simply rambling on alone. England got by on "mm-hm," and "right" until America finished his coffee – did he even need it? He was so full of energy anyway – and ran back into his room to go look over his notes for the next day. (The idea that he even _had_ notes rather surprised England, who had always assumed he simply made up all his ideas on the spot.)

It was all quiet for the next few hours. In fact, England was almost, in theory, able to forget America was there. In theory, anyway. As much as he would have liked to relax with a book or something, America's presence nagged at the back of his mind like an itch just out of reach, and he couldn't concentrate on anything, discarding one activity after another.

Finally he decided to just give it up and go to bed, which was right when America emerged from his room and demanded to know where the nearest McDonald's was, so England had to draw him a map, but then he left and England went to bed and it was honestly all right.

It was the next morning that his problems really truly started.

It was no good from the very beginning, really, since the first thing he heard was America's voice calling his name. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but then decided he would never dream about something like that. It was enough to make him want to pretend he hadn't heard, until America repeated quite loudly, "England! Where are the towels?"

"What?" England mumbled, and opened his eyes out of instinct. Well, it was a strange question.

Bad mistake. The last thing England wanted to see – and the first thing he saw – was America standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Especially when America was dripping wet. Especially when he seemed to have forgotten to put on a shirt.

England opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a croak. He coughed and managed to say, rather hoarsely, "Why are you even up?"

"Jet lag," said America, who was astonishingly casual for somebody standing half naked in the door of somebody else's bedroom (wasn't he supposed to be the prudish one?) "No matter how many times I come over here, I can never get over it. Anyways. Towels? Got any?"

It took England a minute to answer because he was being oddly distracted by the way a drop of water was sliding down America's neck, then slipping across his chest and slithering past his stomach into the waistband of his – "What do you need towels for?"

Oh, that was bloody brilliant, what do you _think_ he needs a towel for?

"There's none in the downstairs shower," America said, starting to look at England as though England were a bit batty. Which was fair enough.

"Er," said England. "Towels. Right. In, um, in the cupboard across the hall."

"Thanks," said America, and closed the door.

What.

Was that.

He didn't think it was _too_ odd to feel, well, odd about America doing something like that. After all, when one has houseguests, one doesn't expect them to show up half-naked in your bedroom. Well, except for a certain, er, _sort_ of houseguest. Which America was most definitely not. Not at all.

So of course it was natural, normal, for him to feel a bit disconcerted.

What wasn't normal was lying back in his bed, closing his eyes and trying to fall back asleep yet being able to think of nothing but hot water and steam and slick skin and piercingly blue eyes –

Oh no. That wasn't right at all. He shouldn't be thinking things like that. It was _America_ he was thinking about. He used to take baths _with _him – oh no, why was that putting _those_ sorts of images into his head? That was inappropriate. That was _wrong._

Right. The images were already fading away (_not_ that he was forcing himself to think of other things.) It was just shock, that was all. After all, he hadn't seen America in that state of undress since around the 1760's, and he looked about eight then. It _was_ only natural that England should be shocked by a grown-up America, shocked by things like the broadness of his shoulders and chest, things like the sort of _sculptedness_ of those same bits, things like the line of golden hair that trailed from his navel down into his…pants…

Er. Yes. Ahem. Not to put too fine a point on it, things like that. Shocked. Right. Right. Natural. It was. Shocked.

He told himself firmly to start thinking in complete sentences and get out of bed, the latter of which, at least, he did. When he got downstairs, America was mercifully in his room (no, not mercifully, because England was over it by then, _completely _over it,) so he dashed off a note and left a spare key on the kitchen table, then hurried out the door. It was fine. He was over it. Just a bit of a shock, that was all.

America was late to the conference, of course. How he managed to get up early and arrive late was a mystery to England, but there you go. At least he was clothed. And England hardly felt awkward at all – no, he didn't _care._ It was just a bit of a _shock._ Get _over _it.

"Let's get started!" America proclaimed, hefting a stack of papers and ignoring the fact that the clock clearly stated they should have started half an hour ago. "Today we'll be going to the results of the Copenhagen summit this month!"

"Load of bollocks that was, too," England muttered to Japan on his left as America started passing out the papers. "With America refusing to do a thing unless China did, and China playing one of those mad mind-games, you know – "

America handed him his packet and his voice abruptly died off. Not because the packet looked particularly arresting, or because he cared if America heard him complaining, but because their hands had briefly brushed, and instantly his mind had once again leapt to that morning. Now, this was just silly! Why, only yesterday America had held his hand for nearly a minute and nothing like this had happened. He firmly told his brain to shut up. It didn't.

In fact, as America walked off, his brain remarked not-so-casually that America's backside looked awfully good in those trousers, didn't it?

The day went downhill from there.

England had never quite realized how many times you _touched_ someone during a day, but now every time their shoulders bumped, or their fingers brushed, or once, when England was coming back from lunch and rounded a corner, they nearly collided head-on, England found himself jerking back as though he'd been electrified. Which was rather how it felt, actually. And these shock were nearly always accompanied by his traitorous brain making some snide comment.

_You know where you'd like to feel that,_ it would say smugly when he pulled his hand back after America's fingers sent tingly feelings up his arm.

_That could have been _so_ interesting,_ it said, slightly disappointed, as England narrowly missed being bowled over by America in that hall, and it provided an extremely unhelpful image of the pair of them on the ground, trying awkwardly to get up…or not. The blasted thing then followed that up with a picture where America had managed to stand up, although England apparently was having some trouble, considering the way he was clinging to America –

He was starting to think all this was coming not from his brain, but somewhere a bit more southerly.

But the problem was, it didn't make any _sense._ He hated America. Well, he hated France as well, and he wasn't thinking these sorts of things about _him._ Furthermore, he hadn't ever thought anything like this before about America. It had all come on today. This led him to conclude one thing and one thing only – he had somehow gone mad. Mostly probably, he was still in shock from this morning. Brains could be fragile things. By tomorrow, it would all be over and he could resume life as normal.

This fact didn't make today any easier.

The awful climax of the day came almost at the end of it, right when everyone was packing up to go. England was hoping to get back home and lock himself in his room without further incident, but America had to go and ruin it all. From halfway across the room, he yelled, "Yo! England! I'm gonna pick up some Mickey D's before I come back to your house, okay?"

Two hundred-odd heads turned toward England as his face became bright red. Mortified, he pretended not to have heard America – as _if –_ and hurried from the room. The look France gave him as he passed was practically rape in itself.

Four more days of this. He wasn't sure if he could stand it.


	3. 21st December

England was being kissed, very enthusiastically and surprisingly quite well, by America.

This was most definitely not a problem. It was so not a problem, in fact, that as America's mouth left his, and traveled down his neck, his chest, his stomach, England was arching his back, his hips toward America, wanting, needing, begging, as America did things with his tongue, his hands and it was all heat and skin and his alarm rang.

He woke up, slick with sweat and uncomfortably hot under his blankets. Just a dream, then. He sighed, disappointed –

Oh fuck. Think with your head for one bleeding moment! He woke up rather more and had to stifle another curse, then kicked off the blankets. Good God! He'd just been dreaming about America. Not just that, he'd been having a _sex_ dream about America, and not just _that,_ he'd clearly been enjoying it, and not just in dreamworld. That was – that was –

Well, it was embarrassing as all hell, and he was glad today hadn't begun with another surprise visit from America.

But other than that, he certainly had, er, enjoyed it. Was enjoying it, in fact, because he discovered it was far easier to let his mind drift back and elaborate than think about what he should be thinking about, which was the way his mad infatuation with America had somehow _not_ disappeared overnight. How could it not have – he'd been so sure it was one of those mad, random things that happened sometimes! (Happened to everyone, didn't it?)

Maybe it still was. After all, you couldn't control what you dreamed, right? Just because he occasionally dreamed about murdering France didn't mean he actually _wanted_ to – well, except once in a while. He'd have to actually see America before he decided anything. Judging by the greasy, smoky smells wafting up from below, America was already up, and already into some sort of mischief. Probably trying to make French Fries on England's stove. Alright. England would march downstairs and demand that America stop abusing his kitchen. America would probably laugh and say something like he couldn't abuse it more than England did on a daily basis, and England would go off in an infuriated huff and the world would be spinning the right way again.

That would be just how it would happen, because surely, _surely, _England had recovered from the madness of yesterday, involuntary dreams notwithstanding.

That was not how it happened at all.

After a quick shower – and a very quick, very guilty wank; he couldn't help it – he headed down into the kitchen and prepared to tell America off. He was about to do it, honestly he was. He'd just opened his mouth when America cut him off.

"Good morning!" he said brightly, with no regard to England's scowl – well, actually, he couldn't see his scowl, as he hadn't actually turned away from the stove. But. "I thought I'd make breakfast. I knew you liked that weird stuff, so I fried tomatoes, but I don't know how they're going to turn out. They look kind of shriveled. Anyway, do you want some tea? I couldn't remember if you put the teabags in or boiled the water first, so I had to Google it, but I think I got it figured out."

England collapsed onto the nearest chair. This was because his knees had gone rather weak. Fried tomatoes? America was making – not just making, making _him_ – fried tomatoes? And _tea?_

"Why," England said, and discovered his voice had gone all shaky, so he coughed and tried again. "Why are you cooking me breakfast?"

America shrugged and turned to look at him for the first time. "Well, you know what they say – houseguests and fish, only good for three days. Since this is my third day here, I thought I'd try making myself, you know, a good guest." The kettle whistled, and America whirled around to take it off the stove.

England put his head in his hands. This was a joke. It had to be. America was going to pull the other one any moment.

America set a mug of steaming hot tea in front of him. "Here you go! How do you like your eggs?"

"Er. Over easy," England said weakly. This was bad. This was awful. He was feeling all warm inside and he hadn't even had sip of tea yet. Why? Why did America have to be so – so –

He took a gulp of tea to get his wits back. It was a bit weak, but what did you expect? There America was, frying him eggs and…tomatoes –

Oh no no no. He was feeling warm and tingly and fuzzy and this was bad, bad, bad. Say something mean. Right now. Stop letting him be so _nice._

"This tea is awful," he said. "And those eggs look greasy." Oh yes. That was terribly cruel. He was really losing his touch, wasn't he?

"Hey – " America grinned and pointed the spatula at England. _"You_ can't be criticizing my cooking, okay? Calling Mr. Kettle; it's Pot: You're black."

"Oh, is that so?" England snapped, jumping up. "You can't even fry a tomato! Look at that shriveled thing!"

"Yeah, well, I never did one before!" America said a touch defensively. Good. But then he looked in the pan and grinned. "It is pretty bad. If Spain was here he'd call it a homicide."

England was smiling before he could stop himself. Stop that!

He made himself scowl and say, "Exactly. Now get away from my stove before you set off the fire alarm. I don't recall giving you permission to cook anyway."

America made a face of mock outrage. "And I was trying to be nice! See if I ever do anything for you again!"

England would've been pleased if he didn't, if this was how it made him feel when he did. "Good," he said. "I don't need your help. Those tomatoes really are smoking!"

He moved to turn off the stove at the same time America did, and their hand met on the knob. And just then, for a moment, there was a _moment _when they looked at each other, America's blue eyes staring right into England's green ones, and England couldn't imagine what the expression on America's face meant, and he didn't want to imagine what his own expression looked like, and then –

And then America made an involuntary sort of movement forward, and his elbow knocked the handle of the pan, and they both leapt back as it went flying.

"Ouch!" said England. "Bloody idiot!" And he went to go run his hand under the tap.

It wasn't really burned, of course. All that had landed on it was tomato. He just needed to face the sink so America couldn't see his red face. Because for half a moment there, when America had leaned forward, he would have sworn America was going to kiss him.

Which was bollocks, obviously. Too much dreaming and tea. He needed to get over this whatever-it-was and get on with a life that didn't involve mooning over America. Because ever if he, England, was- was infatuated, America had never given any sort of indication that he felt the same way. Quite the opposite, in fact. How many times had he been called "old man" or "bushy brows" or "Iggy" (blame Japan for that one)? Those weren't exactly cute nicknames.

So there you go. America _didn't_ like him, had probably only cooked him breakfast to manipulate him into letting him stay longer. So there was _no point_ in feeling like this. So he might as well give it up.

Feeling quite relieved, he turned around – and ran right into America, who grabbed England's hand. "Are you okay?" he said, and damn him for sounding worried. "Do you need ice or something?"

_For everywhere_ but_ my hand. _"No," he snapped, jerking his hand away. "I'm fine. And I'll thank you for not touching me like that." _Touch me any way you want._

"Well, geez, sorry!" America said, not really sounding sorry at all, as England marched off. Good. If we was angry, maybe he'd stop _touching_ England. Maybe he'd _leave._

But somehow, England was starting to doubt it.


	4. 22nd December

The second day of the conference went much like the first, only worse. England was avoiding America like the plague, at the same time half of him (more than half) was telling him to do the exact opposite. Even worse, he got more than a few comments (mostly from Sealand – _how_ did he always manage to sneak in?) about "How did that America – I mean, American food – taste last night?" And it wasn't just from Sealand – France, Korea, and even Romano all found time to make some sort of crack about Big Macs. Honestly, did they have _nothing_ better to discuss than England's (lack of) sex life? And of course America was wonderfully oblivious to it all.

And England had suddenly become very aware of America's obliviousness. He had become very aware of America's _everything,_ but most especially of the way America didn't really pa y that much attention to him. Yes, they would argue once in a while (several times a day), but these were usually brief spats, not prolonged arguments. They honestly didn't interact too much at all. Up until now, that had not been a problem for England.

It was now very painful. Painful because he desperately wanted America to pay attention to him, and painful because he was trying to deny to himself that he cared either way, and painful because he cared so much and America obviously didn't. It was awful. It was awful trying to convince himself it was wasn't awful.

By the time he got home that night, he was exhausted. He couldn't even recall what the topic of discussion had been that afternoon. He could, on the other hand, remember everything America had said to him all day.

He locked himself in his room and went to sleep.

He was determined not to have the same sort of encounter with America as the previous mornings, even if that meant getting up before dawn. In the end, the opposite happened, as he discovered when he woke up to the sun shining in his eyes. Dammit! He'd forgotten to set the alarm.

He dressed in a rush and managed to get there only half an hour late, which meant they'd only started fifteen minutes ago. A few people snickered as he walked in – probably at his hair, he hadn't had time to brush it. Wonderful. When he looked down at today's packet, he groaned. They were talking about Afghanistan. This was going to be entertaining in the worst possible way.

It was. America and Iraq were nearly at blows within half an hour. In fact, America fought with Iraq, Iran, Russia, China, Israel, and of course Afghanistan all before lunch. Honestly, this Middle East thing was almost worse than the Cold War. At least then it was just America and Russia glaring each other down and ignoring everyone else.

Eventually even England couldn't stand it anymore. No one else looked likely to say anything (in fact, they all looked like they were purposefully ignoring it), so he sighed and stood up.

"America," he said imperiously (and he could sound very imperious when he wanted to.) "If you don't calm down right now and stop picking fights with anyone who's got "Stan" in their name, so help me, but I will never help you out in another war ever again."

America turned from yelling at Israel and gaped at England. Finally he said, "The only one who's got Stan in her name is Afghanistan."

England was about to say something else that probably wouldn't have been a great idea when Japan said pointedly, "It's time for lunch, isn't it?" and there was a general rush for the door.

When they came back, however, America was looking quite different. One might even say he appeared conciliatory.

"Look, you guys," he said. "Before we get started, I've got something to say."

England distinctly heard someone mutter, "You've always got something to say."

"Okay, so I know maybe I haven't been all that smart when it comes to starting wars," America said. "You might say I've been kind of…overenthusiastic."

Well. That was new. America, acknowledging that he was too aggressive?

"And I know that invading Iraq might not have been the right move – sorry for that." He actually looked a bit embarrassed. How…odd. "But! I am a hero, you know, so wherever there's trouble, I've got to be there!"

And he'd been doing so well for a moment. "Oh, right," England said acidly. "Just don't expect the rest of us to always come rushing to be your backup, alright?"

America looked at him and grinned. "But you know, England, I've got something to say there - what was it now – "

And he held his arms out and quoted the last thing England would ever have expected.

"_If we are mark'd to die_," he said, "_We are enow_

_To do our country loss; and if to live – "_

Wait a moment. This wasn't – was it? It was! What on earth?

"_The fewer men, the greater share of honour – "_

Shakespeare? America was quoting Shakespeare? Good God!

"_God's will!"_ America was really smirking at him now and for good reason, because England was staring at him like he'd never seen him before. "_I pray thee, wish not one man more_. You might remember that one, England – "

"Shakespeare," England said, and why was his voice all hoarse? "Henry V, the St. Crispin's Day speech."

Oh God. What was wrong with him? Why did just that – why did it make him want to grab America and make him say the whole damn speech? For God's sake!

"Exactly!" said America, tipping an imaginary hat. "And what I mean is, even if nobody else comes with me, I'm still going to go where there's trouble, because that's what heroes do! Anyway, that's all I've got to say. Let's get back to the discussion."

That was awful. Shakespeare. Why did he have to quote _Shakespeare?_ And why was England going all tingly and warm from it? Urgh.

At the end of the day, England made it out of the conference room in record time (avoid America, avoid America), but that was when France grabbed him. Oh no.

"My _dear _Angleterre," he purred, throwing an arm around England's shoulders and steering him away from the crowd – not a good sign. "I realize you may _not_ have much experience in this area, so I will _advise _you." This was getting worse and worse, and the catlike grin on France's face didn't help.

"What area are we talking about, exactly?" England asked, rather nervously.

"Just because you are sleeping with America now," said France. "Does not mean you have to flaunt it in front of everyone."

"WHAT," said England.

"It is so very gauche," France continued, nodding. "Please leave your love games at home."

"_You're _telling _me –" _England spluttered, and then hissed, "And I am _not_ sleeping with America. What on earth makes you think I'm sleeping with America?"

France honestly looked shocked. "You are not? But you have been staring at him all week, and there is so much _tension_, you know… "

Then a grin split his face. Bloody hell. England was in for it now.

"Oh," France purred. "Oh ho, I understand."

"No," England said desperately. "You don't understand. Whatever it is you think you know, you're wrong."

"I do understand," France insisted, his grin stretching wider. "You are not sleeping with him, no. But you want to. You want to very much."

England was not going to tell him anything. Not in a million years.

"I am right, yes?" France said, his arm around England's shoulders again, leaning in rather creepily. "You want him, and you have the idea that he does not want you."

England was not thinking about the implications of that statement and he was _not_ going to tell France a single thing.

France's smile looked like the Cheshire Cat. "Tell me _everything."_

"It only started the other day!" England burst out. So much for silence. "When he came to stay at my house and for some reason I let him and then he showed up at my door all wet and then he tried to make me breakfast and now I really can't stop thinking about him and it's terrible and it doesn't make any sense and what the hell am I telling _you_ this for?" An awful thought occurred to him and he grabbed France's lapels, glaring at him. "If you tell anyone, _anyone,_ I'll kill you! I really will!"

France snorted. "You think I am the only one who has noticed? You were practically undressing him back there! I thought you two would start having sex on the floor!"

"Oh, _fuck,"_ England groaned, putting his head in his hands.

"But do not worry!" France reassured him, patting his shoulder in a somehow not reassuring way. "He is clearly in love with you as well, so –"

No.

"L-l-luh," England stammered. "I'm not – _he's_ certainly not – _love?_ You must be joking!"

France just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"I am not," England insisted. "In _love_ with America!"

And he turned and walked off in a very dignified manner.

He was _not_ in love with America. (He wasn't!) He was not _in love_ with America. (It was just a – a crush!) He was not in love with _America. _(He couldn't be in love with America!)

Anyway, this wasn't _love._ Love was fluttery and pounding hearts and pink. Fine, he was feeling a bit of that, but mostly he was feeling awful and worn out and anxious and ill and depressed. That wasn't love. That was _flu._ For every moment over the past few days that he'd felt fluttery, there were ten moments where he just wanted to go home and go to bed. He wasn't in love. Love wasn't supposed to make you want to be sick.

Although he had to admit it wasn't America himself that was making him feel all ill. It was more the prospect that he was feeling this way and America didn't know, didn't care, and most importantly, didn't feel the same way in return. That was what was depressing him.

Well, yes, but the thing was, even if he _was_ in love with America (he wasn't), it _still _didn't matter. Because America _didn't _know, _didn't_ care, and _didn't_ feel the same way.

And so he resolved, for what felt like the ten thousandth time, to give it up already. Stop mooning over him. Get back to life as normal.

Then he opened the door to his house. And for the ten thousandth time, he remembered that he _couldn't _just give it up.

What he was going to do was demand, "Why are you singing and putting up my Christmas decorations?" but what he did instead was say "Wuh," quite softly. Because America was singing. And putting up England's Christmas decorations.

England thought he might melt. Just a bit.

It wasn't as if America had a wonderful singing voice. It was a clear, high tenor, almost boyish. Not the sort of thing you'd normally call _sexy._ And putting up Christmas decorations wasn't exactly erotic, or even particularly cute.

It was just so – so – when was the last time he'd seen America do something like this? Do something like this for _him?_ Well, never, because they didn't put up Christmas lights in the 18th century. Especially not in Puritan New England.

As he watched America drape tinsel on the until now half decorated tree, England decided they had clearly been missing out back then.

And the singing – if it had been "Jingle Bells," England probably would have been able to handle it. But America was singing that song, the one by that American (of course), and right now he could not have chosen a carol more guaranteed to root England to the spot.

"I'll have a blue Christmas without you," he was crooning, apparently oblivious to England standing in the doorway dripping snow. "I'll be so blue thinking about you…"

Get a grip on yourself! He doesn't even know you're here! He is not. Singing. About. You.

"Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree – " America stepped back and surveyed his own tree, looking pleased. "Won't mean a thing if you're not here with me – "

He finally spotted England and stopped abruptly, then grinned and gestured to the tree. "Like it? I noticed you never finished decorating, so I decided to do it."

"Um," said England. "It's. Nice." He still rather felt as if he was a puddle of something warm and pink. Not a lovely image.

America's grin slipped as England continued to stare battily at him. Stop that, you'll scare him off!

"Are you okay?" America said, now frowning slightly. "You look kinda…I dunno."

England melted even further, if that was possible. _No, I'm not alright. I'm tired and sad and it's all your fault and all I want to do is get away from you and all I want to do is be with you._

"Nothing, I'm fine," he said, looking away and unknotting his scarf. "It's just – your singing…"

"Is it really that bad?" America said, now sounding mildly injured.

"No, it's good." Oh dear. Don't look at him. "I'm just – not used to it."

"Oh," America said, and laughed. "Well then, get used to it."

And he stepped close – oh – and put his arm around England's shoulders – oh no – and how could England have forgotten about this song? Oh bloody fucking hell.

"I don't want a lot for Christmas," America sang with a smile on his face. "There is just one thing I need…"

Oh no no no.

"I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree – " America was so damn close to him and what was wrong with him what was wrong with him –

"I just want you for my own – " No no no he doesn't mean it stop that - "More than you could ever know…"

"Make my wish come true…" He's smiling, he doesn't mean it, he wouldn't be smiling like that if he meant it –

All I want for Christmas," sang America and he needed to escape right now – "Is you!"

That was when England fell on his bum. There were three reasons why this happened. The first was that he really needed to escape from America's arm. The second was that if he had to be that close to America for any long he _knew_ he was going to try and kiss him, which would be a very bad idea, and the third reason was the he had finally melted entirely, and if he were to continue standing he would need a support, and the only support within reach was America (see first and second reasons).

America laughed and said, "You know, girls do that whenever I sing." Then he reached down, grabbed England's hand without so much as a by-your-leave, and pulled him up.

There was a moment where, as England regained his balance, their bodies were momentarily pressed together, and England was glad America let go of his hand so quickly and he could stumble away, because he knew, he knew, that if he hadn't moved away right then he wouldn't have moved away at all.

So England nodded and ran up the stairs to his room where he locked the door and sat on the bed. He sat there for quite a while before he did anything, and when he did move it was only to roll onto his back and stare at the ceiling instead.

France was right.

The damn frog was right for once.

He _was_ in love with America.


	5. 23rd December

Thank you for all the lovely comments! 3

_____________

The thing was, once England realized (accepted, more like) that he was in love with America, his life got an awful lot easier. Perhaps not better, but easier. He'd given up resisting. He was free to do silly, stupid things like stare vaguely at America during conferences and daydream about what it would be like to kiss him, without feeling guilty about it.

This happened to be what he was doing at the moment. It was also what he had been doing most of the day so far, and honestly, it _was_ a lot better than agonizing.

Of course, he wasn't really paying much attention to what they were talking about. It was supposed to be the economy today, and he had the notion they had got to America's new health care plan, but policy was not nearly as interesting as the way America's trousers were clinging to his legs.

The problem was, England was somebody that people often wanted opinions from, so when he didn't give them freely, he got asked questions. So far he'd gotten by on "That sounds alright," and "Why don't we discuss it some more," but he knew he was going to get in trouble sooner or later. For the first time, he wished he was Kyrgyzstan or something, somebody nobody really cared about.

But then, he hadn't been called out yet.

Still, a point was nagging at him, something he kept trying to forget about but that kept coming back to haunt him. For all his newly guilt-free fantasizing, it was going to be painfully pointless if America didn't like – alright, love – him back. That was always the sticking point, wasn't it? Reciprocation of feelings. Yes, and that was why his life wasn't really better, just easier. It had just gotten easier to dig his own grave.

_Well,_ said a voice that sounded suspiciously French, _don't sit around moping about it. Do something. Go after him. Make him want you._

Now that was funny. Really, that was a good joke.

The thing was, everybody wanted America. If they didn't want him, they wanted to be him, but mostly they just wanted him. Alright, he was a bit idiotic, and he could be an awful git, and he was in some money trouble at the moment, and China was on the rise, but he was still _America. _China – ancient, androgynous China – could hardly compare to _that. _America was young and still rich and powerful and bloody good looking –

And England, England, now…he wasn't too badly off money-wise, but hardly a superpower economically. Not politically either – he got some respect, but mostly because of what he _used _to be. And that too, he was five times America's age. Not that those sorts of things really counted the same for them, but all the same. He had already been grown when America was a child. Surely America wouldn't think of him as anything but (at best) an older brother.

Even if you ignored all that, there was still the fact that everybody wanted America. He could probably have half the world in his bed with no effort at all. England rather suspected that for all his arguing with the Arab nations, just a few years ago the dynamic was more toward what you might call peaceful relations. And even Europe – well, France of course, he'd hop in bed with anyone. And a lot of those smaller countries, they'd surely be thrilled to step up affairs with someone like America.

Which was significant because – and England hated it, but he had to admit it – they were all better looking than him. Alright, not _all_ of them, but take a random sample: sitting next to him was pretty-as-a-girl Japan (who was awfully close to America – oh no, don't start there), and on his other side was Spain who had that Latin lover thing, of course. By _him_ was Romano, and everyone knew what Italians were famous for. Continuing on, you had Hungary (unlikely to go for America, but still extremely pretty), Austria (who looked like he had stepped out of a romance novel), Germany (God knew he drew enough glances, at least until people heard him speak)…

Did England have to go on? And there _he_ was, in the middle of them, and come now – Brits weren't exactly known for their exotic good looks. He knew perfectly well that he looked a bit frumpy (more than a bit). His _hair_ to start with – never stayed flat no matter how much he combed it, and such an _odd_ colour. And hell, his eyebrows looked like damn caterpillars stuck to his face. Who wanted someone with caterpillars on their face? Besides which, he was short and skinny, not exactly fantasy material, and it wasn't as if the rest of his features made up for it. He wasn't handsome. He just looked like…himself. Like boring, mean, codgy old England.

Which was all to say that there was no _point_ in him going after America. At best America wouldn't even notice, and at worse he'd get laughed at by everyone. (Although according to France, everyone already thought they were sleeping together anyway, so maybe he'd just get laughed at by America. Which was bad enough.)

_Yes,_ said that annoying little voice, _but you might as well _try._ Just_ once._ You can always say he misinterpreted you later. _

_If he even asks,_ England thought, a touch bitterly. _Or notices. _

Still, it felt an awful lot like fate when, right then, America turned to him and said, "So, England, you've been quiet today…what do you think about the health care bill?"

And England found himself leaning forward, putting his chin in his hands, and looking straight at America to say, "I think you're making this awfully _hard,_ really. You could _do it_ a lot _faster_ than you are at the moment. You just need to _push it through_ already, is what I say."

Well, _that_ certainly got America's attention. He was looking at England with his mouth hanging open slightly.

Before he lost his nerve, England continued, "Look, even Canada's done it. Do I have to get on my knees to convince you?"

Now America really was staring at him, his eyes open wide, looking slightly baffled. England sat back in his chair, unable to stop himself from smirking slightly. Just a bit.

(He heard something that sounded like a chuckle from France's direction. Ugh.)

"Um," said America, who did look awfully off balance. "No, you don't have to get on your – do that. Unless you want to. You know."

"Mm," said England. "Well, that's what I think. Get on with it."

"Yeah. Okay." America shook his head as if to clear it and looked around. "Uh…why don't we move onto something else now? Yeah. How about those, um, cars. Germany, what do you think about cars?"

Well. That was interesting.

England hadn't really expected America to even notice all that, let alone react that way. He'd looked extremely befuddled. Which was good. Right?

No. Not really. Befuddled didn't mean anything. Befuddled just meant he'd noticed England was speaking in double entendres. It didn't mean he was _interested _in it. No wonder he had changed the subject so quickly. So England would probably be denying it all later.

Argh. He felt bloody stupid now. Why had he done that? He should have known better than to try anything. It wasn't like America would ever – he couldn't expect America to – Agh. Why was he such a twat? Why? He should've just kept his trap shut.

Now he was agonizing once again. He'd just have to convince America that he had misunderstood – that England hadn't meant that at all. Wonderful. He'd embarrassed himself for nothing.

The day couldn't end quickly enough. As soon as the conference was over, England dashed out the door. Perhaps he could get home before America and hide away in his room again (he seemed to be doing that an awful lot lately.) But no, London was London, and the traffic today decided to be even more snarled than usual. England knew that America, who was taking the Tube, would surely have gotten back to his house before him.

He opened the front door carefully. No America decorating today. Good. Perhaps he'd stopped off at McDonald's. Up the stairs – no America popping out from behind the corner yet. England breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the bedroom. Home free. He turned the knob and –

There was America, sitting on his bed.

"Oh," said England. "Er. Hello. Why are you in here?"

"I thought this would be where you went to hide," America said, standing up. "Since that's what you've done so far this week."

Uh oh.

England managed to chuckle weakly as America crossed the room. "Hide? I don't know what you mean. Now, if you'll just leave…" He graciously held the door open. _Please go through it._

America didn't. He pushed it shut instead and – England wasn't sure what it, but he suddenly seemed awfully tall, in a way that made England feel distinctly wobbly. Did he have to stand so _close?_

"Something interesting happened today." America's words and tone were mild, but England shivered anyway.

"Er, yes, it _was _interesting when Poland started singing Lady Gaga," England replied. Oh, like that tactic was going to work.

"Not that." For once America was being frustratingly on track. And he kept standing so damn close – hadn't he ever heard of personal space? In fact, he sort of had England pinned against the door. "I was talking about a little before that? You know, when you offered to 'get on your knees'?"

"Yes?" England said – squeaked, more like.

"And I was just wondering – " America cocked his head to the side, and dear God his eyes looked _blue._ "What exactly you meant by that."

England forced out another laugh. Lie. "A bit of metaphor, old chap. That's all." He tried to sidle sideways, away from America.

"Really?" America's hand was suddenly against the wall, preventing England from moving. "I never knew you were so _passionate_ about health care reform." England swore his eyes _glinted._

"I, er, yes, I am." America being so close was making it very hard to lie. Hadn't something like this happened before, five days ago? "Passionate. About health care, I mean."

"Really?" America's gaze flashed up and down. Amazing how just that could make England feel all hot and uncomfortable. "Gosh, you look kind of… out of breath. You know, I remember this time yesterday when I quoted a little of ol' Bill Shakespeare. You looked kind of breathless then too. Why was that?"

Blast it. Think of something! Anything, just not the truth. "It was just…just unexpected, that's all. I didn't expect you to, um, have a quote memorized like that."

"I didn't, actually," America admitted. "I had to Google it over lunch."

"Oh, so you just _knew_ I was going to say that about backup, did you?" That was slightly frustrating. No wonder America had grinned so evilly when England had asked.

"Yes," said America, grinning now.

"So I'm really – "

"Yes," America repeated. "You're really that predictable."

Oh.

"In fact," America said thoughtfully. "You're so predictable that I can tell what you're thinking. Right now."

"No you can't," England said, thinking as hard as he could about butterflies.

"Yes." And America leaned in so, so close, his face, his body inches away from England, so close England could feel the heat of his skin. "I can."

And it was true, because how could England not think about him when he was doing something like that?

"So what am I thinking about then?" England said in one last, desperate attempt.

"You're thinking about me." America looked positively devilish. "Specifically, you're thinking about how you hate me for doing this to you, but at the same time – " He paused, and oh, how England hated him for playing with him like this – "At the same time you're thinking about how much you want me and how you can't stand this for one second longer. Am I right?"

He really was a mind reader, wasn't he? (Or a body language reader, as England's one working brain cell pointed out, considering the way England was staring into America's eyes with his lips slightly parted, looking like a fool. England chose to ignore this theory.)

Oh. Wait a moment. If America knew all that…and America was acting like this…was it possible, just possible, that America did – that America wanted –

(_Yes, you idiot! _the French sounding bit of his brain screamed.)

"You…could be right," England said cautiously.

"Oh, I'm right," America said with absolute confidence.

England lost patience entirely. "Then why won't you stop messing about," he snapped. "And kiss me already?"

And then America's mouth was on his, America's hands were on him, and England was free to let himself finally collapse, because America was there, solid, to hold him up, no more dreams and fantasies. And was it ever good.

And things continued to be good for about a minute and a half.

Because after a minute and a half, England's ever-traitorous brain recovered enough to start thinking a bit. And the first thought that wormed its way into he consciousness was, _He didn't say he loves you._

_So?_ England thought back furiously. _I didn't say I loved him either._

_Yes, but you're the one who's been begging for it all week,_ the traitorous part of him insisted. _He's been playing you like a fish on a hook. How do you know he's not playing you now?_

Suddenly kissing America wasn't so enjoyable anymore.

Suddenly England wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be kissing America.

He somehow found the mental strength to stop doing so and stepped back.

"Wha'd ya do that for?" America said blurrily, looking a bit lost.

"Why did you do that?" England demanded. "Kiss me, I mean."

America's gaze sharpened and he began to look annoyed. "You have to ask?"

"Yes, I think I do." England folded his arms, mostly to stop himself grabbing America again before he got an answer.

America frowned. "Are you kidding? You – don't act like you don't – I only waited this long to make absolutely sure you wanted it, you know! So don't act like you don't want me _now!"_

"_Me_ wanting_ you?_" England snapped. "What I don't understand is why you would want me!"

America's mouth fell open and he ran his hands through his hair in frustration (damn him for looking so attractive even right now.) "Jesus H. Christ on a bike, you don't get it at all, do you?"

Oh.

So he _was_ being played.

He should have known America wouldn't ever really want him.

"You, sir," England said coldly. "Need to get out of my house."

"What?" said America.

"_Out_." It was difficult to make it sound like there were icicles dripping from his mouth when he was still feeling all wobbly from the kissing (and wobbly in a different way, a bad way, but he wasn't thinking about that -) but he managed. He stepped back from the door and opened it.

"What?" America looked genuinely confused. As if he didn't know.

"OUT," England growled through clenched teeth, and with one last hurt look, America left.

As soon as America was through it, England slammed the door shut, then collapsed against it, because the bad wobbly feeling, the nauseous, want-to-be-sick feeling had taken him over. He didn't want to think. He should have known. How could he have known? He should have known.

Below, he could hear the sounds of America leaving, probably to go find a hotel. Worse, - and he didn't want to think it, but it popped in – to go stay with somebody else. Who would it be? France? Japan? Surely not Canada? No, don't think about that.

At least there was only one more day of the conference. God, there was one more day of the conference. He couldn't just now show up, could he?

He wasn't sure how he was going to survive it.


	6. 24th December

I apologize in advance for the French. D;

__________________

Though England had spent most of the week avoiding him, the house felt emptier with America gone. For a few moments the next morning as he moped over his tea, he considered just not attending that day's conference. But then he decided no, he had to. After all, he had to show the bastard that _England_ could care less about _him._ Like he cared a whit for America. _America_ certainly hadn't broken his heart twice now. No, he'd go and show him exactly how much he _didn't_ care about stupid games. He couldn't be played like that. No sir.

He knew America would expect him to come looking all disheveled, like he'd cried all night or something silly (he certainly _hadn't – _only half the night,) so he dressed up nice and even combed his hair until it looked half proper. In fact, he looked rather dashing, if he did say so himself. Not at all like someone who'd had his heart broken. Not. At. All.

America, on the other hand – England almost stopped dead when he got to the conference. First off, America was there on time, which was unprecedented. Second, America didn't look at all like his normal well-put-together, "heroic" self. He was wearing _jeans,_ for Christ's sake, and England swore that was the same shirt he'd been wearing yesterday. Even his beloved bomber jacket was somehow looking worn. In fact, his entire listless appearance suggested that _he _was the one with the broken heart.

Aha. That was it. England didn't know what nefarious ends he could be plotting toward now, but America was obviously still up to something. Don't let your guard down yet. Don't be fooled again.

America didn't take charge with his usual vigor. Everyone was well settled before he stood up.

"Okay, so I know what's on the schedule for today is nuclear policy," he said. "But I thought we could talk about something a little different."

What? What on earth? England started to get an extremely bad feeling about this when America looked straight at him.

"I think today we should discuss something more along the lines of…international relations," America said, honestly quite icily. Oh no.

"I disagree." England couldn't fathom what America was trying to do. If he just wanted to make England out as a real git, England did a fine enough job of that on his own half the time. He didn't need any help.

"Oh yeah?" said America. "Whadda you do that for?"

"Because there _are_ no international relations to discuss." England knew it wouldn't make any sense to anyone else, but he didn't really care.

"I gotta say, I think there are plenty of things to talk about." America was definitely talking only to him now, as if there weren't two hundred other nations listening in and pretending not to. "At least, that's what it looks like from over here."

"Not from over _here_ it doesn't," England snapped.

"I guess you should know!" America laughed, but not in a funny way. "After all, you're the one that broke _off_ relations."

Furious, England sprang to his feet. "You're trying to pin this on me? _You're _the one who – "

"Me! It was all going fine until_ you – "_

"It was not going fine, as _you_ should very well know – "

"I don't know what the hell you think I was doing, because as far as I know I was doing exactly what I said I was – "

"What you _said_ is the problem, you moron!"

"_Sacre bleu!"_ France's exclamation shut them both up, though they continued to glare at each other.

"_Mon Dieu," _France continued, rubbing his temples. "But the sexual tension is unbearable. Will you two just fuck and get it over with already?"

"Shut up!" England hissed at France, only to realize America had said it at the exact same time. A moment after that, he realized absolutely everyone in the room was staring at them. Well, no wonder. He sat down quickly, his cheeks burning.

"As entertaining as this is, I think in this case nuclear weaponry _might_ be the safer topic," France said, rolling his eyes. "Unless, of course, you two _do_ decide to resolve some of that sexual tension right now?"

England gave him such a furious look that he threw up his hands. "Fine! Atom bombs it is!"

What a complete and utter_ cunt._ (America, not France, although…) Where did he get off, trying to blame _England _for this? England hadn't done anything expect, like a fool, fall for America's evil plot. Alright, it was possible throwing America out had been a bit harsh – except no, it hadn't, seeing as America _hadn't been invited_ anyway. America was probably just angry at having to find a hotel room this close to Christmas. Speaking of which –

"Well, if we are not going to be treated to the sight of England and America finally submitting to their lust for one another," France said, standing up ("Shut up!" England snapped again.) "I may as well take this opportunity to invite you all to a small Christmas party I am holding tonight at my hotel."

Oh, good. Something for England to not attend. This way he could have a proper sulk tonight when he was home alone, knowing he was avoiding something that could possibly be fun just because America would surely be there.

Things settled down from there, mostly because the rest of England's day was spent pointedly ignoring America. This was easy, because America was also pointedly ignoring him. What an awful loser. England was the one who'd gotten hurt in all this.

At home, though, he started feeling even worse than he thought he would. The house just felt so damn empty. Would it really hurt to go to the party? He could always leave right away. It wasn't like he had to get dressed up or anything. Who did he have to impress? And anything was better than getting drunk alone on Christmas Eve, even if it was getting drunk with people he disliked.

No, no, it would be better not to go. He'd only end up getting hurt even more. He wasn't going. Final decision.

Alright. Fine. He ended up at the party.

But it wasn't like he got dressed up for it (except maybe put on a nice shirt…and comb his hair again. He couldn't look like a _complete_ slob in front of everyone. And it had nothing to do with the fact that America would probably be there. Nothing at all. He hated America.)

It was just that he had to go for the same reason he had to go to the conference (_not_ because he was lonely and depressed.) America _would_ probably be there, and he _would_ expect England to stay home and sulk, so England _had_ to prove, once again, that he didn't give a damn about America. That was why he had to go. He certainly didn't expect to have any fun. Not at a party hosted by France.

Except, when he got there, America appeared to be absent. England wandered around for a bit (he just needed to prove to America that he was there, that was all), but it really seemed that America was not at the party.

What an arsehole! He'd probably done it just to play with England's head again. (A bit of him said timidly that that didn't make much sense, he it was more satisfying to be angry.) He considered leaving right then, but the drinks were closer than the door, and it was snowing again. What was the point of driving home just to get drunk when he could do it here? Good God, America was such a bloody git.

Several drinks later, he was in the same corner, thinking much the same thing, although more blurrily. He only looked up when he heard, "_Angleterre, mon cher!"_ shouted at him, annoyingly loudly.

"I am not your _cher," _England growled as France draped an arm around him. Did he always have to do that?

"No? Well, then…" France was holding a glass of champagne, which probably accounted for the way he was using England mostly as a support. "Where _is_ your _cher,_ then?"

"What? – Oh, no, don't you start that again." England downed the rest of his own glass. "America is _not_ anything like that. We are nothing. There is, in fact, no we."

"I had deduced that, since you are at my party and he is not," France said, and was he quite as drunk as he was pretending to be? "What happened between you two, to cause this estrangement?"

"Nothing," said England, snagging another glass from a passing waiter. "Except he showed his true colors in the end."

"Ah ha!" France waved his glass in the air. "We come to the heart of the matter. What were your estranged almost-_cher_'s true colors?"

"Not pretty ones." He _must_ be pissed if he was telling this to France. "He kissed me, right, but then…" For some reason he was finding it hard to remember exactly what America had done to make him so angry. Must be the alcohol. "Then he said he didn't want me after all. That's what he did."

"Did he?" France raised his eyebrows. _"I_ understand why he would such a thing –"

"Piss off," England snapped.

"But it seems to me unlikely that _he_ would do such a thing," France continued, refusing to piss off in the slightest. "Did he really say so in so many words?"

England frowned. A haze of champagne and tears and anger was blurring the memory, but it seemed to him - "Er, what I think happened was I asked him why he kissed me, and then he got a bit defensive. So then I asked why would want someone like me – "

"A very reasonable question," France interjected.

"I said piss off. And when I asked that, he said – he said, 'Jesus H. Christ, you don't get it at all!'" England drawled the last bit in a mockery of America's accent, and then threw back his new glass of champagne. "Which is a real arsehole thing to say, if you ask me. Which you are. Asking."

"Do not waste the champagne so, it is quite good!" France objected. "But you see, I see two problems with your assessment of America's motives."

"And what's that?" England knew he wasn't going to get an answer he liked, but –

"First." France raised one finger. "What could he be gaining from such an enterprise? He does not _obtain _anything, not even you, nor does he publically humiliate you in any way."

"He bloody broke my heart, that's what he obtained." England felt like another drink, but no glasses were in sight.

"Ah, but we have both known America for a long time, since he was nearly an infant," France pointed out. "When have you ever known him to be scheming, or vindictive, or even openly cruel? Foolish, yes. Unintentionally cruel, of course, yes. But never intentionally so. He is still, at heart, an innocent."

"Guess we both figured him wrong, then." There was a waiter with a drink tray halfway across the room, but France's arm was still around his shoulders.

"Mmm, I do not think so." France shook his head. "He is not a man of words and thought, what you might call a schemer, but a man of action. That brings me to my second point. Words are quick, are they not? They appear and blow away in the same breath. You could hardly even remember words from last night, and they were very important words. Action, though, actions. I would wager much that you remember last night's actions very well."

"So?" France was looking at something over England's shoulder, but his arm was stopping England from turning to look too.

"Trust actions, _mon_ _cher,_ not words," France said. "That is all."

"I am not your bloody _cher,_" England snapped, deciding he had been under France's arm long enough and trying to wriggle out. "And that advice is complete bollocks."

"Is it?" France shrugged. "Either way – look up."

"Look up?" England did so. "Oh, bugger – "

Of course they were standing under bloody mistletoe. Because his night wouldn't be complete without attempted molestation from France.

Before he could prevent it, he was being kissed by France, very vigorously. And maybe it was because of all the champagne, and maybe it was because he was feeling awful and terribly lonely, but he didn't immediately leap away.

This proved to be a very bad decision, because a moment later he was violently _yanked_ away. If he had any questions about who this second assailant was, they were answered when someone shouted by his ear, "You fucker!"

France, who appeared to be the one this epithet was directed at, simply shrugged and smirked. "Remember, actions!" he shouted as England was dragged off. "Trust them!"

"Where'd you come from?" England said as he was shoved out the door by America, then slightly belatedly, "And let go of me!"

"Your house," America said, and England found himself sighing, because America's voice had not gotten one degree warmer from this morning _(not_ that England cared anymore.) "Which is where we're going back to. Now."

"Why were you there?" said England, but America avoided answering by demanding, "Keys. To your car."

"I can drive my own damn car!" England said, drawing himself up in a very dignified manner.

"Yeah, and I'll let you, once you've sobered up." America continued to hold out his hand. "Do I have to search you?"

_Please do,_ England's brain remarked. Out loud, England grumbled and handed America the keys. "I've driven home like this before."

"I'm sure you have." America unlocked the car and manhandled England into the passenger seat. "You're just lucky you can't really die in a car crash. You might always kill somebody else though."

"I'm not really that drunk," said England, and realized he wasn't. Whether it was the shocks or not being as drunk as he was to be, he wasn't nearly as pissed at he'd been acting.

"Whatever," said America, starting up the car. "I need to do something so I don't feel like a complete fucking idiot right now. Tell me how to get to your house from here."

"Take a left up ahead. Why do you feel like a complete fucking idiot?"

America shook his head. "To find that out, you've gotta ask why I was at your house tonight."

"Why were you at my house tonight? Turn up here – no, the other way, you've got to drive on the left."

America barked a laugh. "I was at your house because I'm a complete fucking idiot. Because I hoped you'd be there for some reason. Because – because I thought _maybe _you weren't really as cold-hearted as you'd been acting. Guess I was wrong."

"Excuse. Me." England turned to America in utter disbelief. _"I'm_ cold hearted? _Me?"_

"Oh, you don't like cold-hearted?" America's fingers were white around the wheel, white knuckled. "How about a total bastard who plays with other people's feelings like they don't even matter?"

Wait wait wait.

"Wait just one moment!" England cried. "That's not me, that's you! _You're_ the one who was playing with people's emotions!"

"How was I playing with anyone's emotions?" America demanded. "All week you were practically begging for it, and you'd better fucking believe I only waited until yesterday to make _totally_ sure, because I didn't want to fuck anything up, but then as soon as I kiss you, you turn into this ice machine and throw me out of your house! And then today, today I'm hoping maybe it was all a misunderstanding or something, but no, no, you show up looking all fucking happy and great. Well, thanks a fucking lot! And Christ, then I come to this party and you're kissing France! So if _anyone_ kissed you would you kiss them back? Is that how it is? How is that not playing with my emotions? How is that not cold hearted?"

"Me, cold hearted?" England jabbed his finger accusingly at America as he spoke. _"You're_ the one who showed up at my house and manipulated me to let you stay! _You're_ the one who had to be all 'oh, I'm going to be so out of character and nice and make you some bloody tea,' and you _know_ it isn't like I could resist that! _You're _the one – "They stopped in front of England's house and America got out so England did too, following him up to the door. "You're the one who went and quoted Shakespeare! _You're_ the one who played with _my_ feelings all week! I could've gone along fine, normally, but you had to come here and make me – you had to come and mess it all up! And then you kissed me and – why are you laughing?!"

Because America was laughing, laughing his head off as he unlocked England's door.

"Don't you realize what you just said?" America chuckled as he opened the door. "I accused you of plotting to break my heart and you accused me of plotting to break your heart! Looks like neither of us was plotting anything – it was all just misunderstanding!"

"Oh _no."_ England stepped inside and prodded his finger at America again. "You're not fooling me again! Just yesterday you said you _didn't_ want me, so – "

America suddenly sobered up. He grabbed England's hand, moving it away. "When exactly did I say that?"

"Er, well – " As usual, dammit, it was hard to think with America holding his hand and staring into his eyes. "You said I didn't get it. When I asked why you would want me."

"You _don't_ get it." America raised England's hand to his face. "If you have to ask, you don't get it."

"No, of course I don't, that's circular logic," England said, but it didn't come out as annoyed as he would have liked. "So explain it to me. What don't I get, exactly?"

"You don't get that I _do_ want you." America turned England's hand over and began uncurling the fingers. England felt his knees start to go wobbly again. "You don't get that you're completely, totally, one hundred percent wantable."

"I don't think wantable's a word," England managed to say, which was a feat as America was now tracing the lines on his palm with the tip of one finger.

"It is if I say it is," America said, then pressed his lips to the palm of England's hand.

Then he did the same thing to the crook of his elbow, then his shoulder, then his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, by which time was inside the doorway. He shut the door with the hand that wasn't holding England's.

"That was just a trick to get inside my house again," England accused, rather weakly.

"Maybe." America's face was somewhere in the vicinity of England's ear, and England had the strangest urge to run his hands through America's snowy hair. "I know another one that'll get me into your bed."

"Oh, of course you do." Not the snappiest line, but the best he could come up with when he could feel America's mouth moving against his neck when he spoke.

"Mmhm. Stop talking and I'll do it." And then America kissed him full on the mouth, and for once England's brain had nothing to say, nothing at all.

America's trick turned out to be quite, er, tricky. England never saw it coming, although his mind was quite preoccupied with other things, like America's tongue in his mouth. They were already near the door to begin with, so America just spun England around using the hand he was still holding as leverage, pressed him against the wall and sort of lifted him up so they were on a level. England was obviously amenable to this for quite a few reasons, not the least of which was he was now free to wrap his arms around America's neck (and bury his hands in America's hair) and in a fit of inspiration, do the same thing with his legs around America's hips.

America took a momentary break from kissing him to murmur in his ear, "Gotcha." England's mind had hardly caught up to wonder what on earth that meant before America had whisked him away from the wall and was marching down the hall (England had to admit this was quite impressive.) Before he knew it, he was being dropped unceremoniously onto the guest bed.

"This isn't _my_ bed," he pointed out, propping himself up on his elbows. "My bed's upstairs."

"You're in it, that makes it your bed." America was pulling off his shirt and oh yes; England remembered that chest from earlier this week. It was having a similar effect now. "Anyway, I thought I might drop you if I tried to go up the stairs."

"I'm glad you're so concerned with my welfare," England said drily, although he imagined the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he was ogling America. He couldn't help it – it wasn't fair for someone to look that good.

"I'm _very_ concerned with your welfare." America was suddenly kneeling over him on the bed, using one hand to unbutton England's own shirt. As if England couldn't do that for himself. On the other hand, this way was much more interesting.

"Oh, you are, are you?" England murmured. That was all well and good for America to say, but he wasn't the one who'd spent all week miserable. He'd been oblivious to England's _welfare_ until tonight. Which was really something they should discuss before this went any farther. He tried to point this out: "You haven't given a thought to my welfare all – "

His sentence broke off into a gasp when America, apparently not paying attention at all, reached the bottom of England's shirt and promptly started in on his trousers. Which did not have many buttons. They did, however, have a zipper. Which America decided to undo with his teeth. Er. Ahem. So much for discussion.

He looked up at England and grinned. "I have so thought about your welfare all week, because I've definitely been thinking about doing this all week."

"I was not using 'welfare' as a euphemism for sex!" Well, maybe just a bit.

"Oh yeah? I was." America seemed far more interested in what was going on in England's trousers than in talking. Which was fair enough, because that was what England was interested in as well.

Except he knew he shouldn't be, because didn't they still have some things to sort out? He knew he had a whole list of questions in his head right up until America kissed him. Those questions hadn't been answered. He just couldn't remember what they were anymore.

But they were _there._ So he valiantly ignored the shirtless America kneeling between his thighs (this took the vast majority of his mind power) and said, "But look, I still don't – "

"_England,_" America said crossly. "For once I'm gonna tell _you_ to shut up already."

"But – "

"Shut _up_ and let's have sex."

"But _really – "_

America sort of growled and then, as England continued to protest, stood up once more and kissed him again.

Oh.

Maybe that was what France meant.

Because when you were being kissed this sweetly and softly and in a way he never would have expected America to kiss anyone, let alone him, you just _knew_ some things. Because nobody was sly enough to fake this. Especially not America, who, England did have to admit, had never really shown a penchant for slyness.

So before he knew it, before he'd even really realized this, he was kissing America back, he was pulling America against him and of course, when he did that sort of thing the kiss became less sweet and more, as America so elegantly (breathlessly) put it when he pulled away, "Can we get naked now then?"

England grabbed hold of America's belt and started undoing it as fast as he could.

"I'm guessing that would be a yes," America drawled, grinning.

"Shut it," England growled.

"Oh, I'm glad things as back to normal."

"I said shut it, you'll get plenty of time for cute lines later."

"I'm always cute," America couldn't resist saying, but then England yanked his belt out of its loops and he decided it was worth it to shut up and concentrate on England's welfare and it was heat and hands and sweat and skin.

When it was over and they were lying next to each other still panting for breath, America grinned at him quite obnoxiously and said, "Don't tell me that didn't make up for your crappy week."

"Well," England said, just to be difficult, "To be honest, the ending was alright, but there were bits in the middle that could have definitely used improvement."

"Oh yeah?" America looked mildly offended. "I bet you wouldn't have said that when you were – "

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," England insisted.

"Or when I was – "

"I really don't know what you mean."

"Fine then." America frowned at him. "I'll just have to show you."

"Good," England said haughtily. "You need the practice."

This was not a problem at all.

___________________

Apologies for such a late update! The Christmas thing seems rather pointless now…ahaha.

In theory, there will be one more chapter to wrap everything up.


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